Dance Me To The End Of Love
by Fixomnia Scribble
Summary: Written for the second anniversary of Jamie and Eddie's dance. It's schmoopy, it's angsty, it's sexy and it's what totally should have happened. Canon-compliant riiiiiight up until the jazz bar dance scene.
1. Chapter 1

November 17, 2016

There's _unwise_ , and then there's _taking Eddie to a fancy wedding and sleeping across the hall from each other a week after blurting out big feelings and kissing again_.

He paces in her apartment while she gets ready, more than a little buzzed with the intimacy of bantering back and forth while she's dressing in the bathroom, just like an ordinary couple. With the small part of his mind that's unoccupied, he's also rationalizing like mad.

It's no different from any plainclothes op they've done together, he tells himself as they chat. He might as well be waiting for her outside the locker room. They have their personas and backstories prepped. They have their wardrobe.

Boy, do they.

One benefit of running with the Ivy Leaguers is that he knows how to dress really well when he wants to. His nicest blue everyday suit is professionally steamed, his chambray shirt pressed but not too starchy. He borrowed Pop's vintage shoe-polishing kit after dinner on Sunday. Boar brushes and hard paste and real elbow-grease give leather a sort of inner gleam that modern quick polishes can't approach. Fresh shave and haircut: check.

He hadn't missed the look on her face when she opened her apartment door. And he still has his _best_ properly bespoke suit for tomorrow night. He wants to do her proud.

"This is just the appetizer," Eddie says, unknowingly echoing his thoughts, as she clicks her way out of the bathroom on a pair of neat three-inch heels.

It's his turn to drink her in. He has to take a slow inhale as he stares, and maybe that's why she has a moment of insecurity, oddly for her, and asks him what he thinks.

 _I'm fucked_ , is what he thinks. He's always known she has nice legs. He sees them at the gym or on weekend runs fairly regularly, but not often in heels and skirts. She's wearing a clingy little cap-sleeved silvery number that shows off every toned curve he spends so much time ignoring. The cutouts down the front hint at the creamy skin beneath. It's very feminine, but comfy enough that she could dance all night or kick off her shoes and do a foot-chase in it if she had to. It's totally, utterly Eddie.

For the first time, he really wonders if he can handle this. It's not like they set explicit limits on tonight. They're hanging onto the bare threads of _just wanting to be honest_ and not screwing up on the job, but the rest is unclear. Nobody's said "No", or even "Not yet", when it comes down to it.

"I think if I was the bride, I'm calling in sick, 'cause you're gonna steal the show."

He knows he's staring, and that she loves that he's staring. She's trying for casual and affectionate, but her eyes gleam with appreciation and mischief. He badly wants to tell her she wasn't his second choice, not for a moment. He couldn't find a date because he didn't ask anyone else. She's no stand-in.

She gets right up in his space, and he gets a whiff of her perfume. Never one for anything too flowery, she's found something light and sweet and just a tiny bit earthy. Appetizer indeed.

The mutual admiration draws out into seconds. She's so close he could just tilt her chin up and kiss her. He needs to touch her so badly. He wants to taste that sliver of exposed skin, listen to her breath catch.

"You don't look too shabby yourself, Mr. Reagan."

They can be adults and be honest about the attraction, even if they've decided not to take it any further, surely?

Sure.

Except his hands have been mentally skimming down over her firm little backside and he's been imagining swallowing down her moans of hunger since they locked eyes.

* * *

She's coasting gently on a second Black Russian, trying to ignore the tummy flutters at the way Jamie makes eye contact with her now and then, checking on her as they do the social rounds after the rehearsal dinner. Despite her being a technical stand-in, he's been treating her like a _date_ -date all afternoon and evening, through the rehearsal and dinner afterwards, and introducing her around. Occasionally murmuring little asides in in each other's ears only they would understand. Once he forgot himself enough to rest his hand in the small of her back as they chatted with another couple, and she could not stop leaning into the gentle pressure of his thumb stroking there absently.

She's told herself for so long that good-guy Jamie is not her type, and that any interest on Jamie's part is just from her constant proximity, shared cop sympathy and the fact that she's not bad on the eyes for a shorty. She's just under his nose all the time. She'd be way too much for him in real life. He'd drive her mad with his conscientiousness.

All lies. The truth is out now, and they can't take it back. It's not familiarity and it's not the appeal of the differences between then.

If they were any other two people, would they give it a shot? Or would they be just as concerned about messing up their friendship as their partnership? Because no matter what, he's her best friend, and that's got to be the keystone in all of this.

It's a steadying thought. Except she can still feel the imprint of his hand on her back like he was stroking her bare skin.

Eventually it's their turn to congratulate and catch up with Ricky, Jamie's old friend from the One-Two. After three years in Manhattan, Ricky had opted for the quieter fare of Nassau County PD, so he could spare some energy for night courses. Eddie likes him. He's a happy man tonight, with the grounded calm of knowing he's exactly where he needs to be, but still a little dazed to find himself there, surrounded by friends and with the love of his life nearby.

"Is that the bride-to-be?" Eddie asks, casting around for a reason to take her eyes of her partner in that suit. It has to be tailored or at least bespoke, and he wears it with a quiet confidence that's not helping her. She loves him in it. She wants it off him.

 _Truly, though, Jen looks lovely_ , she thinks.

"The future Mrs. Rotkowski," Ricky agrees.

Jamie shakes his head in admiration. "She looks beautiful, man."

"As does your date," Ricky says gallantly, raising his glass to her.

"Oh, we're just partners," she hears herself say hurriedly.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"No, it's – it's fine," she assures him, as Jamie watches her with a small smile. "Happens all the time."

She's just finished congratulating herself on reinforcing the lines, when Ricky's police partner Derek rolls up on them. He's got a few drinks in him, but she's willing to bet alcohol doesn't make much difference. Derek is the sort who get oozy and handsy by reflex, not because it means anything.

"I, for one, am thrilled to hear this news," Derek sloshes towards her. Nothing she can't handle, especially with Ricky's restraining arm around his partner.

"What's that?" Jamie asks. Only Eddie notices the tiny note of warning in his voice.

"She's _single_?" he says significantly. "Great to meet you. Derek."

She eyes him dubiously, but accepts his handshake. "Eddie."

"Love it. Something so hot when a girl has a boy's name."

She sends Jamie an amused glance. This is the sort of thing they'd usually howl over later in a cab on the way home from a bar.

But not tonight.

She's not sure how it happens - Jamie's skin is usually Reagan-thick when it comes to throw-downs - but suddenly Derek and Jamie are having some sort of pheromonal antler-clash over her head. _Over her_? she wonders. There's no reason for any of that. Jamie's made that clear enough. They both did. And she hardly needs his help dealing with the Dereks of the world.

Ricky slips in between, which he shouldn't have to do at his own celebration, and walks Derek away. It should be over. It shouldn't even have started.

Jamie's got that telltale flush on his neck, though, as the small crowd disperses. She wants to slip her palm over his skin there, cooling and calming, but it would disprove the lie all over again. And she'd be too distracted by the heat of him. She's always had a thing for riled-up Jamie. She's done her share of riling over the years.

She reaches for him anyway, tugging at his arm and inviting to come and dance. At least she can distract him for a while. But he does that snail-shell thing, withdrawing and retreating. She's stung for a moment, but shakes it off.

Ordinarily, she'd tell him bluntly, "Well, I'm gonna go dance. You come join me if you want to, or you know, sit there by yourself if it makes you feel better." If she wants to go dancing with every guy in the bar, or every girl, it's hardly his business.

But tonight she hitches herself up on the stool next to him and orders another drink herself.

What partners do, right? Never let each other drink alone.

Halfway down her fourth Black Russian - they're really good here - she nudges Jamie's arm with her forefinger to make sure he's still alive, and says, "Hey. You don't think in a million years I'd ever even give a Derek a second look."

He seems amused by the idea, anyway, and shakes his head. "No, I know. I just wish you didn't have to deal with slimeballs like that."

"It's part of the deal."

"It shouldn't be."

"It's why when we meet guys like you, we hold onto them," she says. There's a lot of truth in that, and she has to take a moment to think about it some more. She means to say something inconsequential, like, "Ricky's nice, anyway," but she ends up laying her hand on his arm, and tells him: "I don't want to let you go. I'm not gonna."

"Who says you have to?"

"I'd like to see anyone try to make me."

Apparently the vodka is bringing out her fightiness. Jamie laughs, though, his eyes alight again.

"C'mon. It's almost midnight. Didn't you say you wanted to be up in time for a proper breakfast tomorrow?"

"I love a good hotel breakfast," she agrees. "You wanna find Ricky and Jen and say goodnight?"

They do. Ricky apologizes again for Derek, as they're getting their coats on. Both she and Jamie brush it off. You don't get to pick your partners.

It's a crystal-cold night outside, and Eddie is glad the hotel is only two blocks away. Jamie is so careful not to touch her, not even in laughter. It feels all-wrong not to take his hand, but it's not a date and they're only partners. Partners who are going to be sleeping a few feet apart in a short time, with a narrow hall between them.

She desperately wants to ask him to join her for one last drink in her room, but it would be futile. They'd only get each other completely wound up, and he wouldn't make a move on her while she's remotely tipsy anyway. Besides, she's the one who laid everything on the line last week, and he shut her down. If there's something he wants, he's going to have to ask for it.

They walk in near silence, and smile at the concierge who waves them in and quickly closes the door behind them. The hotel lobby is blissfully warm, and she closes her eyes for a moment while they wait for the elevator.

When she opens them, Jamie is watching her face with one of his inscrutable expressions. She meets his gaze. Such a familiar, beloved face. His eyes fix on hers, serious and darkening. Her heart begins pattering away despite her best efforts, and her eyes fall to his perfectly formed lower lip for just a moment. Or two.

The elevator arrives, jarring them back. Inside, she steps close to him and impulsively wraps her arms around him, leaning her forehead against his throat, because she's cold and she cannot be without his touch for a second longer. The broken little groan he gives just about undoes her, as he gathers her up and holds her tight. It's a tension release, of a sort. As long as they don't look at each other. Friends can hug, right?

He's not hugging her. He's holding her like he's as determined as she is not to let go. His head drops and she feels his warm breath ruffle her hair as he sighs. All the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

"Eddie…"

Oh, God, that voice. She's dreamed of it. If she looked up, he'd be right there, and in a heartbeat he'd be kissing her just like she needs him to.

"I know," she says, nearly whispering. _They can't._

They reluctantly separate as they arrive on the seventh floor. It's not a long walk down the corridor to their rooms, but it feels momentous. Anything could still happen. They both feel it.

They reach their rooms. Ever the gentleman, Jamie waits to make sure she's settled in first, and she smiles wanly and reaches into her purse for her door card. As she shoulders the door open, she feels him suddenly right behind her. His hand slides over her right forearm, turns it palm-up. She can't look at him, but her breath comes short as she turns around. The sleeve of her coat slides back as he cradles her hand, bends, and touches his lips to the inside of her wrist.

She feels the shock of it right in the depths of her belly, and a sharp gasp escapes her, loud in the silent corridor. Her eyes fly to his. The hard control he's exerting over himself is right there in the heat of his gaze on her mouth, the tightness of his jaw. She watches him swallow, and he lowers her arm.

He steps away. He doesn't say goodnight, or sleep well, or anything. There's nothing to say that they can say out loud.

She finally turns into her room. In five minutes, she's in a blessedly hot shower, imagining herself and Jamie tumbling through the door and onto the bed instead, dizzying mindless kisses turning to scorching hunger. The memory of that little groan plays over and over, and she comes in five minutes flat.

Sobering up fast after her shower, she lies in the warm bed, and imagines him doing the same thing across the hall. Is he listening hard for a knock on the door, wishing she'd make a move? Is he beating himself up for not coming to her, himself? Or is he lying there all satisfied that he's made the right decision?

Fuck it. She's so lit up she's ready to go again, so score one for female anatomy, or something.

She imagines waking up after a couple of hours of sleep, to hear a tap on the door. Flying to open it, she sees him there, wild-eyed, and his mouth lands on hers as she reaches for him. As the door clicks closed, he's got her pinned up against the wall, his body hard and urgent against her, his hands desperate in her hair. It's _everything_. It's the two of them taking everything they need from each other, breathless, and their clothes just melt away as he lifts her up in his strong arms and thrusts home, right where she needs him. She's writhing and arching for it in her bed, her busy fingers furrowing deep inside in a pale imitation, but she can summon up the weight of his body and the sound of his moans and the scent of him and the touch of his lips on the tender skin of her wrist sends her into a shuddering hard climax that leaves her utterly limp.

One thing she knows for sure, she thinks as she rolls over and sinks towards sleep, is that something _has_ changed.

And they're making up their own rules now.


	2. Chapter 2

There's _unwise_ , and then there's _leaving Eddie visibly trembling with desire and walking away._

He's sipping his drink slowly and watching Eddie dancing with Jen and her bridesmaids, in between the wedding dinner and the cake-cutting. He's not unhappy. It's a good crowd and everyone's mellow, and there's nobody he'd rather watch enjoy herself out there than Eddie. But, just as with the whiskey in his hand, he knows his limits, and he knows that dancing with her tonight would be more than he could handle. It's hard enough to be near her at all without reaching out to touch her.

He's addicted.

There's no way to roll back last night. It was a gesture packed with intent and feeling, and everything he needed to say but couldn't.

He'd nearly worn a patch out of the carpet of his hotel room after they parted, pacing just inside his door. Around one in the morning, he'd opened the door a crack and peered out, telling himself that if he could see any light under Eddie's door, he'd do it. He'd stop fighting and go to her.

But all was in darkness across the hall. She wouldn't thank him for waking her up, he told himself firmly. So he'd headed for the safety of the shower, and given himself over to what relief he could.

 _She closes the small distance between them and her mouth finds his, just like she kissed him last time. Only this time, he kisses her back, hot and needy, both of them bursting into flames. He remembers the taste of her kisses like a hit of something. They stagger back into his room, grabbing and pulling at clothes and hair. As they crash into the bed, his hands slide up under the skirt of that silvery dress, and the feel of her smooth thighs and soft round ass nearly undoes him, as he pulls her on top of him. He tugs at her panties and she's right there with him, panting her wishes against his mouth._

He could still catch a faint trace of her perfume on his lips from where he kissed the pulse point of her wrist, but it was the conjured sound of her pleasured gasps growing deeper, richer, that had him gritting his teeth to stop his own helpless groans escaping out loud.

Breakfast in the pleasant hotel restaurant had turned out to be an exercise in denial by consent. Besides a cheery, "How'd you sleep?" Eddie hadn't mentioned anything about the night before. It wasn't until they were on their way to Trinity Episcopal for the two o'clock wedding service, after a morning of pedestrian sightseeing (Eddie on a second mocha is a sight to behold), that she'd looked at him seriously and said: "No fights. Okay? I can handle a jerk or two all on my own."

"Copy," he'd said, holding up his hands in a sign of total agreement.

He'd meant it then, but that was before Slimeball Derek hit the dance floor. He wasn't the type to dance an entire song with anyone, but gravitated between women and clusters of people in a way that set Jamie's teeth on edge, though he wasn't sure why. People mingled at weddings. Maybe it was the way Derek seemed to expect people to play along with his antics.

 _That's it_ , he thinks. That's Derek's real game. It's not the wannabe playboy routine that sends up red flags, but the way he sizes up and controls people by making them uncomfortable. That's why Jamie doesn't want the guy in the same room as her. Sure, she can handle him. She shouldn't have to. Nobody should.

But Derek's been fairly low key tonight, and Jamie is just keeping an eye on things for the moment. Eddie knows he's there. She sends him a smile now and then, but she knows how he likes to people-watch from inside his head sometimes. Maybe he's convinced her he's really not the dancing type. It's safer, even if it's not entirely true.

"Why aren't you out there with her?" Ricky asks, breaking into his thoughts.

"Medical condition," he says smoothly. "Doc says I got two left feet."

Ricky's not buying it. "You sure you two are just partners?"

"Pretty sure." _And going to stay that way_ , he tells himself.

"For what it's worth," Ricky tells him, kindly, "Me and Jen used to be _just friends_."

Derek's been circling closer to Eddie, little by little. As Jamie watches, he makes a grab for Eddie's arm and tries to manhandle her into a spin and a clumsy embrace, gripping her wrist too tight and sending her off-balance. She's not happy but trying not to make a scene, tucking her hair back and pushing back against him playfully to try to keep some distance.

It hits Jamie in the gut and sends danger signals down his limbs. "Oh, here we go. Looks like your boy just got lost."

 _So much for no fights,_ he thinks, cutting a path through the dancers. Nobody, nowhere, touches Eddie like that. The only question is how quickly he can get Derek to be the one to take the first swing and start the fight. It's a skill you pick up quickly as the youngest child in a pack of Reagans.

Eddie steps between them, as he drops verbal bait-bombs all around the guy. He can't help but notice how easily he and Eddie touch and move around each other, almost dancing themselves by instinct in comparison to Derek's mauling.

Derek telegraphs his swing nearly two seconds out, and Jamie moves easily with the blow. He thought he'd let Derek embarrass himself and then march him off the dance floor, but it doesn't turn out that way.

He forgot he's an NYPD cop at an NCPD wedding, and village idiot or not, it's their village and Derek is their idiot.

Well, shit. Looks like he and Eddie are going to have to fight their way out of this one after all.

* * *

It's an experience, signing for his belt and watch and things at the booking desk in the morning. His best suit smells like day-old buttercream icing, and he's pretty ripe himself. He's going to have to do some major restitution with Ricky and Jen.

He wonders how Eddie fared overnight. She was amazing, holding her own until a few of the clearer-headed local officers circled round the dance floor and started grabbing collars and snapping handcuffs. He can't imagine her mood right now.

At least it sounds like Derek's in for a tongue-lashing from his CO as regards his public behaviour, too.

Once it was known that he and Eddie were NYPD, the local officers and jail guards had treated them with barely concealed contempt. But as the story of Derek's behaviour got around, contempt turned to amusement, and by morning, a couple offers of a beer if he ever found himself hanging out in Nassau again. Derek may be their guy, but they do know what he's like, and what Ricky's had to deal with day to day.

At least, being in cells all night, he was able to overhear the beginnings of a scheme to throw Ricky and Jen another reception at some place of their choice, once things have calmed down. Jamie immediately offered to throw in a contribution, regardless of whether he was invited back. Unlikely that Derek would be attending.

But first, back to real life, including getting home. He wonders if he should foot the expense of taking a cab all the way back to the city, and decides it would definitely be for the best.

"How'd you sleep?" Eddie asks him, as he exits through the open gates. It doesn't sound at all the way she asked him that yesterday. She hasn't slept much, by the look of her, but that just means she's been thinking all night of what she wants to say to him.

"...people have said way worse to you about _your own father_ , and you just laugh it off!"

"What are you saying, Eddie? Just spit it out."

"You got pissed 'cause that guy had his eye on me."

 _No, I got pissed because I didn't realize what he was until it was too late to get him away from you,_ he sulks to himself.

"Oh, this is about you?" he says out loud. She does have a way of picking the barbs out from under his skin without warning him, and it's easier to react to that than answer her.

"No. This is about you sending signals about us, but never copping to it…no pun intended."

"What signals? That guy got in my grill, plain and simple."

He's being deliberately obtuse. There's nothing simple about this. They're really, really good at the denial game, and if he's sending any signals right now it's that they have to go back to playing their old roles, before they get back to the city.

She stops in her tracks and stares him down.

"It's smart not to want what you can't have, but first you have to admit that you don't want it, just so everybody's clear."

He's with her for the first part, but the second part gets away from him and the third part makes him wonder who she's referring to. He thought he was deliberately not looming or expecting her to stick close to him. He wasn't even near her some of the time. She'd danced with plenty of other people before Derek got grabby.

"I'm confused."

"Aren't we all?" she sighs tiredly, and hails the next cab that passes by. Pulling her wrap around her elegant shoulders, she throws him an annoyed glare as she steps in and is borne away, alone.

 _Oh_ , he realizes. _She was partly talking about herself._

But they do want, and they could have, and they can't lie to each other anymore.

* * *

It's nearly ten, and they'd agreed on nine, but at least she gets there.

She'd composed a few text messages, sitting at home over a glass of wine, but she'd deleted every one. Jamie's making an honest effort at making up to her for a weekend that went south, and they do need to clear the air before they go back to work tomorrow.

 _We're cool. Just another weird weekend, right?_

No. They can't keep doing that.

 _I'm not mad at all, but not sure it's wise to hang out…_

But the thought of not seeing him makes her ache inside.

 _You know what will happen if I meet you. Is that what you want?_

Nine-thirty found her in a cab going ten over the limit to the address he'd texted her that afternoon.

She doesn't know how Jamie found the jazz and supper club in the basement under a block of retail stores – she suspects Henry Reagan – but it's beautiful and friendly and everyone looks so amazing all dressed up. She loves how her own sparkly vintage sheath dress makes her feel, classy but sultry. She's added just a tiny drop of Arabian musk to the raw amber she was wearing before. And nobody knows them here. They could be any couple out on the town. It's a dangerously alluring thought: an assumed persona can so easily turn into a channel for the truth to come out.

He turns as if he hears her thinking his name. His eyes drink her in, head to toe, just like they did the other day, and her tummy jumps. He looks amazing himself, in the blue suit he wore before, and a more formal shirt with cufflinks.

They take in each other's black eyes, now fully ripened from angry red to dark purple. She wants to run her fingers over his face and kiss it better. She has the uncanny sensation he's thinking the same.

"Sorry I'm late," she says, as if she hadn't been wrestling with herself all evening.

"I'm glad you made it," he replies. She'd seen him tucking his wallet back into his jacket, though, and knows how close they came to missing each other.

A grin tries to break across her face, but it still hurts to smile much. "This place?"

He looks around the club. "What?"

"Jamie, people are _dancing_ here. You don't like dancing," she prods him gently.

"Right place, right time, I do," he says. "C'mon."

He holds out his hand, and hers slips into it without her needing to look.

"Can I – get a drink first?"

They need to talk, and dancing is not going to help them do that right now. But he throws her a look. "You already had a couple, trying to decide whether to show up."

Well, that's true. And she should probably not get tipsy this late on a work night. "Somebody's gonna make detective."

He smiles at that, one of his internal Jamie smiles that you have to look for, but that she counts up and saves like merit badges. She drifts into his arms and takes a slow inhale at the feel of his hand at her waist. He pulls her a little closer, but seems happy enough for her to start off leading.

She peers over his shoulder and surveys the crowd, as if they're really on an undercover op. "I am positive we're the only cops in this joint," she reports. Unless there are a few retirees.

"And the only couple with matching black eyes," he adds.

That rattles around in her head as they take their place in the circling crowd. It's such a romantic setting, and Jamie is being so attentive and – and _debonair_ , she thinks, that it's hard to reconcile with his reservation at the wedding. But then, everyone knew who they were, among all those cops, and nobody knows them here. Is this the only way they can be honest with each other?

She slides her arm around his shoulder and lets him lead for a while so she can close her eyes and think.

When she opens them, Jamie is staring broodingly at her mouth. The tummy flutters start up again.

She takes a breath for courage, and tries for casual, asking: "Do you ever think about what we might be missing out on?"

"Yup," he nods, seriously. _Oh, God._ He really has been thinking through all of this. It's not just feelings, or the crackling sexual tension that any other partnered cops might have dealt with long ago and gotten over. But then, he asks her, just as seriously, "You ever think about what we might be giving up?"

He's not telling her she needs to be reasonable and realistic. He's asking if she's factored it all in, and what she wants to do about it. Because this isn't something they can play around with for a while and see how it goes. They already have eyes on them at work, for any proof or even hint that they're more than partners. Blue line gossip makes relationships on the job really hard, even keeping things aboveboard and by the book. They either make the leap together and try it for real, or not.

She holds his gaze and lets him see everything behind her eyes. "Yup," she mimics gently.

Somehow her hand has come to rest over his heart, stroking the soft warm cotton of his shirt. His thumb strokes the back of her wrist there, and an electric buzz passes through her skin. Her body remembers the last time he touched her there, and craves it again, craves _him_.

Oh, God. Are they really doing this?

"Jamie?"

"Yeah?"

He's got that intense look on his face again, like he's thinking of exactly how he wants to kiss her. She doesn't look away from his eyes, as she often has to do. She smiles, and this time it doesn't hurt at all. "You dance just fine."

His eyes gleam back at her.

She leans in, and his hand slides into the small of her back like it belongs there, bringing her in closer. Their bodies are still drifting in easy movements, the other couples circling around them, giving them space. After Louis Armstrong, it's Lena Horne's "Love Me Or Leave Me", and some of the couples disperse back to the tables. Others come onto the dance floor. It's a more upbeat tempo, but like a few other couples, they're just swaying slowly, wrapped up in each other.

His warm breath sends shivers over her bare shoulder and all through her insides, and then she feels his lips mark her throat, where the fall of her hair hides him from view. She gasps at the sensation, and nearly freezes, her hand tightening around the back of his neck to hold herself upright. She hears, and feels, his interested hum against her skin, and he does it again, so lightly that it sets off all the fine hairs standing on end again.

Then he's pulling back, but just enough to slide a finger under her chin. His eyes are warm on hers, and then he tilts her face up so he can touch his lips to the bruise under her sore eye, so gently it couldn't possibly hurt. The intimacy of it makes her breath come short and fast. He can feel it.

This isn't the kind of place where people are kissing, much, but two can play at that game, she thinks. She slides the hand that's resting over his heart downwards, and hooks one more button of his shirt open, letting her thumb and then her fingers stroke his bare skin for a moment. She's been aching to touch his skin for years, and he's been needing it, too. His reaction is instant, his hand tightening on her back and his forehead leaning against hers to hide his face.

"God, Eddie," he rasps. "Do you have any idea – "

"Oh, I think I do," she murmurs back, very low. "But I just got here. You wanted to dance with me, right?"

His self-mocking sigh makes her smile. "I did."

She levers herself up against him and whispers in his ear, "There's a hallway to the bathrooms. I'm gonna go. Get some water or something and come find me in a minute or two."

He gives a quiet groan that rumbles from deep inside, and she realizes just how wet she's getting. She gives him a breezy smile as she steps back and walks away. He's always had a thing for her ass, whether he'll admit it or not, and she's happy to oblige him with a nice view and just a bit of a swing in her step in time with the music.

She finds the doorway to the back passage, which is hidden to blend in with the décor. It leads to a white-painted brick hallway, dimly lit with wall sconce lighting. It's much cooler here, the music muted, and she takes a moment to breathe. She listens hard, but doesn't think there's anyone in either of the washrooms at the end of the hallway.

She's having all kinds of naughty thoughts that leave her shivering with anticipation. One of the wall sconces shows a shadow that turns out to be a small alcove, and she steps into it, memories and sharp desires swirling together. How much…how far…it's Jamie, but when his control runs out, she knows –

She sees the door open. There's a rush of sound and light, and then it fades as he reaches for her outstretched hand, and then she can't think anymore, under the driving heat of his kiss. He's as ferocious as he was gentle before, his mouth hard and urgent, his tongue seeking hers, his body pressing her into the wall as his hands lift her up against him. He answers her whimpering approval with a growl of his own, and oh, God, his teeth find the sweet spot of her throat just above her shoulder and her head falls back. This – this is what they always knew it would be like.

His hands move down her back and keep going, and she drags in a breath and slides open another button of his shirt as he palms her ass just right. He pulls up the back of her dress in handfuls, and gets his hands underneath, groaning at the feel of her. She gasps as he bites just a little harder and strokes a finger between her legs, over her panties. She's soaked and throbbing already, his touch unlocking years of pent-up hunger.

"Oh, Jesus," he presses his forehead against her shoulder, as he sucks in a rapid breath, and then his mouth moves down over her breasts, following the deep plunge of her dress. "We can't – not here – it's not…"

"I'm so fucking close," she whispers in his ear, as he brushes those maddening light, breathy kisses over the tops of her breasts. Her nipples rivet up hard and eager and she manages to tug one shoulder of her dress down far enough so his hot mouth can latch on with a singleminded intensity that makes her head spin. " _Ah_! Oh, _fuck_ , Jamie, I'll come in like a minute. You can do it."

He lets out that broken groan again, and sinks to his knees. Sliding his hands up the sides of her shaking legs, he tugs down her panties and helps her step out of them. And then he's lifting one leg over his shoulder, and his fingers are parting her slick, overheated cleft and then he's drinking her down, his tongue flickering all around her stiff little clit and deeper, sliding inside to taste her. His low moans echo the harsh gasps she's trying to stifle with her fingers in her mouth.

She has a sudden flash of _what would happen if someone caught us?_ and then she thinks of what they must look like, Jamie licking her out up against the wall in the shadows, on his knees in front of her in his elegant suit, so far removed from their daytime selves this might be a dream.

But it's not. He's sucking and teasing her lips apart with gentle fingers and it's so fucking hot she's seeing stars. His hand braces her thigh, and if it weren't for the wall behind her, she'd collapse with the onrushing waves of pleasure, each one sending her closer and closer to the edge until she convulses, crying out in mindless ecstasy as he keeps licking, gentler and softer through the aftershocks.

He leans his forehead against her thighs, catching his breath, and she reaches down to slide trembling fingers through his hair.

"Oh, my God," she says weakly, leaning back and pulling her dress back up over her shoulder. "You – give me a second and I'll – "

"No, no," he murmurs, rising to his feet. "I think our luck really would run out. Otherwise…" He kisses her greedily, and the taste of herself all over his mouth makes her dizzy with want all over again. "You are the hottest fucking thing I've seen in my life."

"You haven't even seen all of me."

He gives her a look that tells her exactly how much of her he intends to see before either of them gets any sleep tonight.

"How're we gonna go back out there?" she giggles softly. She reaches up to button his shirt again, planting kisses over his skin as she does. "God knows what I look like, and you…"

"Have a jacket I can hide my sins under," he says. "And yours." He bends to collect her panties off the floor and tucks them into the pocket of his jacket, before slipping it off and draping it over his arm in front of him.

"Nice," she approves, "Not gonna fool anyone, though."

"I'm not interested in fooling anyone," he tell her, with a sincerity that tugs at her heart, "Not anymore, and especially not you. And as for everyone out there, I don't care. Nobody knows us, and we don't have to come back here."

She smiles, and takes his other arm. "Oh, I think we'll be back here," she says.


End file.
